


Reasons of (H)eart

by Pathosiel (Valsair)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort is Available Anytime, Drama queens, Fake Medical Procedure, Feels, Fluff, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Sarcasm, Sass, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valsair/pseuds/Pathosiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was aching for a case after the long rehabilitation. If an interesting case happened to lead him into creating an elaborate trap to expose a fraud doctor by trading his heart away... Well. </p><p>(He had been bored, but Dr. Watson's heart beats a thrill in his chest, helps regulate the flow of his thoughts, and keeps a steady guard against words meant to hurt Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>Sherlock could not explain how it mattered.)</p><p>A.K.A. The Universe Where Sherlock and John Exchanged Hearts Because of Reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doctor Fraud

There was a cold draft in St. Bart’s, and Sherlock was at his wit’s end, hiding in a closet. He had to get access to the morgue. He needed to check the recent victim of what he suspected was a serial murderer. Mycroft had stolen his lock-picks again, and it had driven Sherlock to the brink of boredom. He had been bored since three weeks, and he did not know if he could handle it— the rehab did well, surely, but it made him so _bored_.

Luckily, Sherlock knew how to act around the staff, and they didn’t know him that well enough to _see_ him as unordinary.

People these days were insufferably normal— idiots who couldn’t observe their surroundings well, and Sherlock found it both helpful and irritating. Helpful because it made it easier to slip past them, and irritating because they failed to even notice Sherlock filching a uniform and disguising himself as one of the staff. No one observed.

No one has come to his level of intelligence, and he felt like the stupidity of the world was attempting to suffocate him. He almost wanted to simply hang himself in the middle of the lounge just to see if they would see it before he died.

Died from their blindness. Idiots.

Sherlock sighed, nerves heightened by a passing nurse — _mid-thirties, blond hair, dyed, two years married, cheating, two lovers at side_ — who was speaking with a doctor. His eyes narrowed with curiosity at their muffled conversation, and he leaned forward.

"…doctor. He needs a heart transplant immediately. I don’t know where we would find a donator, but Dr. Winnow says they have to find a donor immediately or Dr. Watson dies."

"Are you sure?" The doctor sounded uncertain, extremely uncomfortable.

 _Worried? Nervous? No. His face — I can’t see from this angle, but if I turn… Oh. Oh! A misdiagnosis? Naughty, naughty, Dr. Winnow. But helpful giving me a case!_

Sherlock smiled widely, enthused by the opportunity to solve a case before leaving the hospital. He now only needed evidence. He’d have to contact the Yard. He remembers observing the new Detective Inspector.

"Dr. Winnow is the new doctor," the nurse replies strongly. Sherlock sees the doctor wince, and he connects them as siblings. "I saw all those awards and his doctorate certificate in his office. The hospital hired him because he’s apparently a genius, you know? Probably the best in here."

The doctor shuffles forward, nodding slightly. “If he’s sure, then. I guess we could find someone. What did Dr. Winnow say the heart is needed for?”

"A transplant, I remember, but…"

Their voices faded as they started walking with haste. Sherlock scrambled away from the door and straightened his clothes. He raised a hand on his collarbone and aborted the gesture, having momentarily forgotten that he was in disguise. He scowled shortly, then strode out of the closet with his back straight, chin up, and a fake smile.

He needed to find this office.

—

It was laughably easy. It took only five minutes and a few smiles to find the office. Sherlock made sure he had pictures of the incredibly fake certificates framed on the walls. He had glanced at the room, sweeping his keen gaze and missing nothing, and found out several relevant information about the doctor.

_In fifties, owns three — no, four — dogs… A string of lovers— emails from worried family and wife, several from mistresses (with some of medical background) — a worn watch, probably father’s — sentimental value. Father was a doctor, strict and a certified genius. Dr. Winnow is a fraud, stealing certificates of father, claiming as his own — not well-hidden dates on certificates, easily-spotted, but overlooked…_

Now to give Sherlock and excuse to have him sentenced for life. A false doctor— life-saver enthusiast, but uneducated and reckless— it would have been discovered sooner if they hospital director had not been blinded by the refined looks and certificates. Idiots.

What had that nurse told the doctor? _An exchange…_ he pondered over these words, pursing his mouth with distaste.

He needed to find this Dr. Watson.

Was he in the roster? Did he work in the hospital? No, it was obvious. The nurse was worried, and extremely so. Dr. Watson worked in St. Bart’s and Dr. Winnow had, perhaps, found him offensive, if his written complaints were enough to be evidence. Obviously pretending to like the other doctor, but no one noticed his scorn over the professionalism.

Sherlock felt giddy, but he suppressed his excitement. He now only needed to find Dr. Watson’s office. The case is not nearly done, after all. He still needed the scornful Dr. Winnow convicted.

A jailed fraud caught in an elaborate trap would make him feel better.

—

Dr. Watson was interesting. _Very_ interesting. He obviously planned to be drafted to war, and had been spending time in St. Bart’s as he waited for a reply. Sherlock could not tell if _Dr. John H. Watson_ planned a specific place, but he narrowed it down to Afghanistan or Iraq.

Sherlock filed in the words, the notes and the hand-writing into his Mind Palace. 

_Steady, confident and determined. Polite, clinical and yet a subtle sarcasm. Almost inappropriate humour, but interesting. Unafraid — no, courageous and loyal. Left-handed. Personality is obvious by his use of words — poetic? Expressive? Honest, earnest and sincere — hidden biting words with use of professional words. Idiots probably overlooked that — with discipline, almost military. Training? Perhaps. Gun powder — need to clean this — there. Love notes to girlfriends — previous? Current? Previous. Sentimental. Yet also professional. Sister goes by the name Harry — sister has a girlfriend named Clara. Prefers male pronouns. Engaged. Shorter than my height — oh! Compatible. Excellent! This would do._

Sherlock found himself silently impressed by the contradictory impressions he received from the notes. Emails were sent with a subtle expression of sarcasm that most idiots would not notice — Sherlock found this greatly amusing. Dr. Watson was a man of words — brave and yet pretending to be so… Fluffy.

Sherlock found himself frowning. There was no other word that he could describe this Dr. Watson. Fluffy, perhaps because the doctor seeks domesticity when in reality he is dangerous — dangerous because he seeks adrenaline, excitement and a good hunt. Compact, destructive, aiding, and yet stable. A hidden strength so obvious that Sherlock wanted to call every military force available and inform them to accept a certain Dr. John Watson, because he knew the doctor would be overlooked. A seemingly normal hedgehog with dangerous spikes.

And yet, Dr. Watson knows nothing of this. From what Sherlock had gathered from the notes, emails (password written on a file. Need to tell him to change it.) and medical files, John Watson has blinded himself, despite being fairly intelligent (not a genius like Sherlock, but he can be taught).

He smirked and made his way confidently out of the doctor’s office.

It was time to meet Dr. John Watson as a patient.

—

Sherlock had expected John Watson to be asleep, not awake and reading to sate boredom. He had been propped into a sitting position by the bed, holding a thick book, a fantasy novel, and reading quickly. It had appeared as though he was reading a favourite book, as his look of expectation kept itself present for the next lines, face turning triumphant and amused.

Sherlock had recently found out that Dr. Winnow reasoned the heart transplant could be done at a later date, but risk Dr. Watson’s heart all the same. It was an amusing lie, but it also made the chance of Dr. Watson dying — the more interesting doctor — and the trapping of a fraud more complicated than Sherlock would have anticipated.

He then noticed the man scowling as he read the book, which was something about a Hobbit, going by the title. Sherlock had been slightly mesmerized by the influx of information he could note from the Doctor’s body language and hair earlier. The doctor had obviously skipped sleep and is rebelling against the nursing staff (food barely edible, but good for experiments).

_Recently restrained. Slightly drugged? Yes. Pain killers? Poor sedative mixture. Dr. Watson in late twenties? Scholarship? Hard-working, hands are calloused — handling medical tools? Surgeon practice. Does not swoon upon sight of gore. Strong muscular stature proves training. Self-trained. Gun-shooting class? Perhaps. Need data. Face wary, frowning, suspicious —_

“You’re not one of the staff,” said the doctor immediately after looking at him. Sherlock was taken aback, surprised, but delighted. “Who are you?”

Sherlock found himself smiling inadvertently at the doctor’s dry tone and appropriate question. John the Doctor had a sharp sense of observation, although a different sort— perhaps like the ones who claim to use intuition instead of observation.

John kept staring at him steadily, expecting an answer. Sherlock admired his restraint. Sherlock would have snapped and accidentally hurt his target’s sensitive self, so he replied:

“A patient observing a patient.” A blatant lie. Obvious enough, but not for the idiotic. John smiled, then suppressed it after realizing he was smiling. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the action.

They eyed each other carefully, warily, and a sudden burst of laughter erupted from the doctor’s throat. Sherlock found himself following his example a few seconds later, chuckling shortly in surprise. It happened so rarely — John the Doctor noticed his rather obvious lie, but had chosen to find it humorous instead of calling for security.

“That was the worst lie I have ever heard — how could anyone — they probably looked right over you —” John the Doctor choked out through giggles. He looked unbelievably mirthful, eyes of shades of blue almost appearing to twinkle in delight. He looked younger, the lines of stress relaxing on his face, there laying dormant.

Sherlock found himself amazed for a short moment, giving the doctor-turned-patient a questioning look. He was amused, of course, but he wondered lightly if it was the cause of poorly-mixed sedatives that loosened John the Doctor’s inhibitions and self-preservation.

John — he had an identity, now, to Sherlock. Personality written all over his face, eyes so expressive and open — yet also dangerously aware and alert. Sherlock had to admit that the doctor would be qualified to join the army. Despite his unfortunate position in Sherlock’s case, being a target of a doctor scorned, the man had evidence of strength, a solidity that Sherlock found stable.

John looked unshaken by the fact a (dangerous, suspicious) stranger was in his room. His giggling faded into shaking shoulders, trembling with the afterglow of laughter and hunching over himself. He wiped the tears caged by his eyelids and smiled at Sherlock in amusement. 

"What are you _really_ doing here, though?” It was asked lightly, accompanied by a knowing smile. Sherlock pursed his lips, deducing that the doctor was initiating a flirty conversation.

"I’m learning more about you," answered Sherlock honestly. John’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

"What’s a beauty like you doing here learning about a sick patient?" Sherlock felt his cheeks infuse with blood, and he cleared his throat, unprepared by the compliment, but prepared with a narration.

"You’re not sick. You are here in this little white room because your unfortunate talent incited jealousy in a colleague. You’ve got a scorned doctor faking your medical files in order to put you down. I wanted to study my clients before I accept their cases. Hence my presence in your room." There were other ways to phrase it kindly, but being blunt always seemed to induce some sort of sobriety into people.

John’s face blanked.

Sherlock continued, unperturbed by his silence.

"Your office is rather open, Doctor. I’ve deduced you to be in your late twenties, with an alcoholic lesbian sister that goes by the name Harry — he wants you to use male pronouns instead of female ones when referring to him — and with a favourable view of dogs. You are waiting to be drafted to a military base in order to treat wounded soldiers, perhaps as tribute to your grandfather, or your strict mother, as their pictures are present in your top left drawer."

He paused, waiting for an interjection. When John didn’t talk, Sherlock proceeded to outline a few of his deductions.

"You have a sentimental streak when it comes to significant others, based on your poetic notes — you don’t feel ashamed of it, however, as you kept them folded with the text out in the open for all to read, lying all over your workplace. Your computer password is the date of the moment you were accepted into this hospital, and the date of your internship. Your phone would have either the date of your completion of your doctorate, or the birthday of your brother. You’re almost ambidextrous. You’ve been training yourself to use each hand in case someone disarms you in a gunfight — you should train thirty minutes each day minimum, by the way — to be able to wield one guni in one hand, and a needle in the other. You practice your signature sutures in both hands in unison to ensure you have the skills to do so — you should keep your sewing kit in the right-hand side of your drawers, not the left. Someone might snoop in and rummage through your stash of threads to accuse you of stealing hospital property."

John’s eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably when the doctor simply opened his mouth and closed it, then repeated it for several times, imitating a gaping fish in his astonishment. The silence stretched, and Sherlock waited patiently for the doctor to compose himself.

"That..." John appeared to struggle for words, mouthing words silently to himself. He shut his book and sat up more evenly. "That... was amazing. Absolutely amazing. How did you...?"

Sherlock blinked at him, and his mouth parted slightly, stunned. Yet, he found himself speaking almost reflexively.

"I've deduced it from your belongings, your hand-writing and the portraits in your office. You're a very meticulous type of doctor. However, all your sentimental items are laid out for anyone to see, and your password is written on one of a file about your behaviour and conduct. It was easy to deduce from there where you took the inspiration for your password, sift through your poetic email to previous girlfriends and deduce your sister's preferences. He hinted quite strongly that he identifies as male, and wants you to be encouraged to call him a brother instead of a sister."

John's smile brightened, and Sherlock stared at him in confusion. "That's amazing! Brilliant. So very extraordinary. Not only are you gifted with beauty, but you also hold a great mind! You must have been greatly bored to go through my things. I'm actually not that interesting, so you mist think me so... Normal."

"That's not what they usually say," Sherlock found himself blurting out, blushing madly at the compliments. He inwardly scolded himself, unable to leave his gaze from John's expressive face as it twisted with amusement.

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock admitted with great reluctance.

John's unexpected laughter caught him off guard, and he almost flinched before he recognized that John was simply... Laughing. Not at him, however.

John cleared his throat in embarrassment, noticing that Sherlock failed to laugh with him. "They probably found it rude when you unveiled everything about them," offered the doctor. "People are really offended when someone invades their privacy like that. Most especially when more other people are involved. It causes gossip."

"Ah." Sherlock did not know what to say, but he filed a note to deduce surface observations unless asked otherwise.

A companionable silence fell upon them, and Sherlock deduced three nurses have gone and fixed the room several times, as the scuff marks on the floor were relatively new. He noted the doctor's relaxed posture, eyes trailing to the bruises hidden just slightly at the edge of his left sleeve. _Finger marks, tight grip_.

"So why are you spending your time here? Medical ward helping you think away?"

Sherlock allowed a smile of mischief and excitement on his face. 

"Yes. However, I have found more interesting things to do, and you, my dear doctor, will help me catch a doctor scorned."


	2. Mystery Liquid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Gabriel, the Not-a-Nurse.

John had asked Sherlock to call him by name, impressed by his methods of deduction about the fraud doctor. He let out expressive, colourful words to Dr. Winnow’s disdainful past and failures. He bluntly insulted the hospital’s management of applicants, going as farr as to mention specific names who annoyed him the most. 

Despite all this, John Watson looked amused and excited. He listened attentively to Sherlock’s plan and nodded appropriately to proper lines, asking intelligent questions and hesitantly adding points that made a difference to Sherlock’s trap. However, mentioning that they would need to allow the doctor to place his inexperienced hands upon them by surgery, John had scowled, looked thoughtful, then nodded determinedly. 

And it all led to the surgery room and a falsified story that sounded ricidulously unbelievable, but worked to their advantage. John had thoughtfully offered to initiate it once a nurse checked up his state. 

Sherlock had seen John flirt with a nurse and her small entourage of volunteers, mentioning his ‘childhood friend’ was there to visit his ‘ex-significant other’, but decided to find John first. After rehearsing, in a rather hopeful voice, that Sherlock had spontaneously decided to agree with a surgery no matter how much John protested, the nurse and volunteers were wrapped in their manipulations. Sherlock found it both incredulous and laughable that they believed John’s fibbing. It was so obvious he was lying, but they were too absorbed in the idea of the story that they failed to see it. 

It came to the point they had to sign contracts. 

Sherlock eyed the paperwork, scrunching his nose in distaste. Could they actually skip this without using Sherlock’s actualy name? Mycroft would have a conniption in discovering Sherlock had gone and become a donor for a simple case, just to trap a fraud. It was tempting to sign a false name, somethig obvious enough that Mycroft would know _exactly_ who it was, but only Mycroft. 

"Are you, or are not, going to sign the piece of paper?" asked John jokingly. Sherlock turned his head and bit his lip, indecisive. 

"It would give my brother grief, but then it would make me known," Sherlock answered, hands gesturing madly with the pen. "There are several grammatical mistakes in this, too much double meaning. Anyone could purposely misinterpret it without repurcussion. Legally, common sense would not apply with the use of these words." 

"Just sign it," said John, who had turned back to his own paperwork and started skimming and signing his signature. "You can use a different name, right? I’m sure a master of disguise have different identities to use in case of emergencies." 

Grumbling quietly to himself, Sherlock signed a different name, one of his homeless identities. They would find the appropriate medical files in their system. Hopefully Mycroft wouldn’t recognize it and force him to back out. 

"How you came to the idea that I have several identies is beyond my deducing capabilities," he said wryly. 

John paused in his signing, looked up at Sherlock and licked his lips. Sherlock noted that his eyes had followed the gesture reflexively. “We’ve been talking to each other since half an hour ago, and I still don’t know your name.” 

"Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson," he answered, pointing and himself and then at John. John chuckled at his hand-waving, offering an hand. 

"John Watson, Mr. Holmes. You can call me John, as I’ve said earlier." Sherlock shook his hand, finding John’s grip firm, yet unrestricting. 

"Sherlock, please. Mr. Holmes reminds me of my brother." 

"Sherlock, then," John said, warmly. Sherlock’s mouth twisted at the side, and his shoulders relaxed. He released his grip from John’s hand and continued to deduce the coffee stains on the floor and the wall adjascent to the bed. 

Sherlock and John separated as they filed the papers together. A small flock of Dr. Winnow’s fans, nurses legally, accompanied them. They made them strip, take a shower, don a flimsy medical gown and paraded them in the halls almost smugly, as if tribute to their wise and amazing Dr. Winnows. Sherlock found it reprehensible. 

They were led to an operating room with a glass window on the wall facing the hall, and John looked nervous as they told him to lie down. Sherlock followed their instructions with a petulant frown, lying himself forcefully on the bed, and glancing at the nurse that entered the room to arrange a row of surgical tools. 

Just as he was about to resign himself to wait impatiently, Sherlock noticed the male nurse with the short figure, who repeated unfamiliar, jostled movements and gave awkward glances around the room. The male nurse shifted, dropped a surgical tool and hurriedly deposited it into a beaker of alcohol, burning it. The nurse next to him asked a question, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the accent the nurse used. 

"John," he hissed quietly. John shifted, turned his head and gave him a questioning look. "That nurse, the male one — a little taller than you, with dark-blond hair, and awkward gait — he’s not a nurse. Not of medical profession. His accent keeps changing, too. He doesn’t know his way around." 

"Jesus Christ." The male nurse blinked rapidly and glanced at them both, wearing an amused smile. Sherlock adopted a look of nonchalance and nervousness. John’s eyes widened. "What to we do?" John whispered quietly. 

Sherlock whispered back urgently, thinking rapidly. “If he doesn’t interfere with the surgery, then we may be fine. I didn’t expect that we’d also need to handle an inexperienced nurse. I can’t get a firm hold over his descriptions — the other nurse is blocking the view. Call her.” 

John nodded firmly. He called the nurse blocking Sherlock’s view, and to find out more information than name of their mysterious nurse. The nurse immediately responded to his call, face flushed with delight — Ah. Infatuated at the doctor. Brilliant. Human error at its finest was more susceptible to manipulations. 

Sherlock took that moment to study the nurse. 

_Male, obviously, in early thirties? Late forties? Age irrelevant — ah. Straightening clothes when no one seems to be looking, alert and bright-eyed. Smirking knowingly, smugly? Confidently, but why? A phone in shirt pocket, rectangular, denoting either social or entertainment purposes. Hands not calloused, soft. Hair brushed back, denoting a need to be presentable, to be noticeable, to be remembered. Face is memorable, eyes are golden brown Dressed almost neatly, movements unsure in the clothes, almost awkward if not for — sweets?_

The nurse had popped a sweet into his mouth, and not one nurse from the room noticed the movement. No one said a word, not even the nurse directly in front of the man. Sherlock was about to call attention to it, but then John spoke. 

"Sorry about calling you. I’m a little bit nervous, and I need some distraction. Could you help me with that? I don’t… Ah…" John bit his lip worriedly, then looked around the room in a fashion, locking his gaze on the male nurse. "It’s just my first time to be operated. And… Who is that? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that nurse around." 

The female nurse — Martha? Macy? Madeleine? — ignored John’s rude behaviour, offering a sympathetic smile. “That’s Gabriel. He’s new, actually. Just turned up a week earlier. He joined Dr. Winnow’s team after some incident in the emergency room. Saved a life, that man. Very noble of him.” 

"So Gabriel is new, then?" Gabriel dropped a surgical tool again, then sterilized it. Again. John chuckled nervously as Sherlock twisted to his side and pointed a hand blatantly at the clumsy nurse’s direction. "Ah, yes. Yes. I don’t know about you, but I think he needs a little more time with the others. Needs to stretch his medical muscles. He actually looks, um, very competent. Some of the others need their time flourishing, though." 

The three of them cringed visibly when Gabriel tripped and nearly dropped several clinking glasses of what seemed to be — oh, surprise! — more essential medical tools. Sherlock scowled. The nurse — Martha, probably — giggled awkwardly. He sighed in exasperation, quietly. He motion to his wrist, tapping a finger at the back of it, gesturing for John to be quick. He deduced that Dr. Winnow would be there in a few minutes, perhaps even seconds. 

"I’m sure he just needs to feel his way around, Dr. Watson," she assured weakly. "Dr. Winnow knows what he’s doing. Very competent doctor, that." 

John’s eyes darkened. Sherlock licked his dry mouth at the expression, transfixed. John’s mouth twitched into a hesitant smile, and glanced up at the nurse and beamed brightly. 

"Yes. He probably needs to know his way around," he added. He chuckled dryly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I guess I’m a little bit calmer now. Thank you, Marcel. You can go back to the fun stuff. No need to humour my nervous babbling." 

Sherlock watched the nurse retreat with great reluctance, stealing glances at John and supervising Gabriel’s assistance. John sighed audibly, and Sherlock turned back to see a smile directed at him. He smiled back awkwardly, unprepared, once again, for John’s earnestness to help him. 

Dr. Winnow took that moment and entered the room. His eyes narrowed when he saw JohnThe nurses immediately scattered to regroup, standing before the fraud doctor with looks of anticipation. 

"We’ll discuss what to do in the other room," Dr. Winnow said, wrinkled face tight — _tired, overexhausted, insomniac, lip with coffee stain, decaf instead of caffenated_ — with derision as he glanced at Sherlock, John and his fan group constantly. The nurses threw each other looks of confusion, but they nodded nonetheless in confirmation. The fraud doctor smiled. “Now hurry along! We’ve got work to do.” 

They left the room marching like soldiers, scurrying after the fraud and stumbling against each other like excited little puppies. Sherlock nearly gaped at their worshipful pawing at the man’s lab coat, but restrained himself. From the glass, they could see them discussing. 

Sherlock and John exchanged looks, Sherlock mocking Dr. Winnows by mouthing the words he said, while John’s eyes bulged in shock, and he shushed Sherlock, covering his giggling with a hand. 

“But John —” Sherlock protested. 

“Shh! We’re at an operating room. We’re about to be operated-on, so we shouldn’t laugh. It’ll be a crime scene,” John tried to whisper without giggling. 

Sherlock imitated Dr. Winnow’s wrinkled, suspicious face. 

John broke out into giggles, and Sherlock chuckled deeply. The doctor relaxed, and they both rolled their eyes in unison, shaking their heads. 

A snort alerted them to another presence in the room. Sherlock stiffened, and he turned to see Gabriel Not-a-Nurse stifling laughter with his hand. The nurse cleared his throat and noticed them looking at him. He smiled at them. 

"One week is enough to learn his way around the hospital’s operation room," Sherlock muttered to John, eyes narrowing as Gabriel approached them hesitantly, but with purpose. He sat up, and reached out a hand to help John.

Gabriel stood between their tables, keeping an eye on them with a playful little smile. 

"You’re not a nurse. What are you doing here?" John blurted out. Sherlock palmed his face and groaned. John shot him a look, turning back to Gabriel. "Well?" 

Sherlock glanced at Gabriel expectantly. 

"Oh, you know, a little bit of this and that," Gabriel said in an American accent, waving a hand lightly. His eyes — brown-gold-greenish — lowered to Sherlock’s. "I’m just here to give you something to help with your problem." He placed both his hand forward, palms down, and then he flipped them up. 

A clear bottle, corked, about six inches tall, was on his hand. Filled with clear liquid. Sherlock tensed. _Cocaine?_ He swallowed hard, eyeing the bottle tentatively. John made a noise of surprise. 

"It’s what my brother called a ‘purifier,’" Gabriel started casually. This time, it was a British accent used. "It cleanses, obviously. It’s for eradicating every other drug in your system. It won’t interfere with drugs that entered after its use, however. So whatever sedatives that they use would still work. Also, it tastes sweet," Gabriel added, looking thoughtfully at the bottle.

He then offered it to Sherlock. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously. “Are you suggesting I drink an unidentified liquid solution without testing its properties beforehand?” he asked incredulously. 

He gained a pout from his effort of restraint. 

"It doesn’t always look so bland, but I thought disguising it as clear liquid would have calmed you." 

"Calmed me," Sherlock deadpanned. John snickered at the side, and Sherlock threw him a petulant glare. So much for a partner. 

Gabriel’s pout grew more upset. Sherlock was just about to take it, just to spite John, when Gabriel shook the bottle, and everything changed. 

What was once had been clear liquid was now a shimmering, and _glowing_ , gold liquid. 

Sherlock and John eyed it in surprise. 

"And that’s _exactly_ what it really looks like,” Gabriel said, smugly. Then he added, urgently: “Now, please just take it. Right now. They’re about to come back, and if they see you with it, they might take it away.” 

Sherlock hesitantly took the bottle, furrowing his brows in curiosity. _How?_ He tapped it, wondering how the previously clear liquid turned into a semi-opaque liquid gold. _Glowing_ liquid gold. He popped the cork off. 

"Are you sure?" John whispered from the side. He glance nervously at the two of them. "Is that safe?"

"It’s safe, trust me. Go on, I’ll —" Gabriel sharply turned his head to the glass, then the door. "I have more of it for you to check at a later date. You can do the checking yourself, actually. Test your blood afterward somewhere, then you’ll know what I mean. Drink half or whatever amount. You can share, if you doubt it." 

Gabriel then took out the phone from his scrubs, handing it to Sherlock. John whispered something about it being prohibited, while Sherlock was deeply in thought. 

Sherlock took the phone, flipped it, noting _nothing_ but relative newness, clear of fingerprints or threads, no marks, scratches or whatsoever. “How?” Sherlock muttered, completely baffled. 

"That’s for you, darling," Gabriel said. He straightened his lapels and started walking backwards to the door. "My name is under Gabriel. I’ll talk to you soon, when you catch him. Bye, love!" And he left through the door, stumbling outside and distracting the little committee. 

John made a sound of incredulity. “Did he just —” 

Sherlock downed half of the gold liquid and felt a sense of warmth tingling as it touched his skin. It was sweet on his tongue — but not overly sweet — it tasted like milky powdered sugar and a hint of fruits, honey and nuts, some little granules melting with tang on his tastebuds. His mind filed away the flavour, deeply tempted to drink it all, but he stopped himself just in time. 

"You — you just drank it. You —! What if it was poisoned?" John cried out, reaching for him. 

"Let me check, then." Sherlock licked his lips thoughtfully, a hand raised to halt John’s movement. "It’s not. Most common poisons have a certain aftertaste. This is barely poisonous." He lowered his hand and offered the bottle to John. "Here, John. It actually seems edible." 

John eyed him, then snatched the bottle from his hand. “If I die, I’ll haunt you,” he threatened weakly, then downed the rest of the drink. 

Sherlock waited patiently for John to finish the drink. He took the bottle from a shocked John’s hand and watched as John licked his mouth tentatively. 

"That actually wasn’t bad. Tasted sweet," John admitted. "Like milk, and fruits." 

They both eyed the bottle and cork. 

Sherlock stood up, walked to the equipments, and dropped it in the beaker filled with alcohol. John snorted, then laughed, realizing what he just planned. 

"Oh no. That nurse must have been so clumsy again," Sherlock said in a flat voice, returning to his respective table again. 

John’s face strained with laughter. “Must have tripped without us looking.” 

"I’m sure he didn’t mean to, doctor. He’s just not used to all the equipment," Sherlock chided mockingly. 

"They’ll forgive him, I’m sure." 

Sherlock thought over it. “He won’t be here,” he realized. John ceased laughing. “He’ll resign or quit tomorrow, but he will assist with he operation.” 

The doors opened again, and the medical team entered with determination and confidence. Dr. Winnow led the group inside, a shark smile on his face, and John hastily lied down back. Sherlock lowered himself, inclining on the operating table. 

They prepared the equipment, and Gabriel filched the bottle and cork from the beaker without anyone reacting to his actions. He was smiling gently as he did it, placing it in his pocket and delegating a small group of three nurses. 

Gabriel approached them with the masks attached to a tank, and he asked them to wear it. They both acquiesced and breathed the numbing agent. 

Soon, they both succumbed to the numbness, and all Sherlock remembered hearing before he fell unconscious was Gabriel speaking in soft tones: 

"Everything is going to be all right, Sherlock. I’ll make sure of it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are mine. Corrections or suggestions are helpful. Beta-read and Brit-picking is appreciated. Your reading this for the sake of reading is also endeared.
> 
> No one actually reads this, so... I'll pretend I'm reading out nonexistent comments to myself.
> 
> Hello. Gabriel just entered the scene, ohhh, wow. I wonder what's inside of that odd glowing gold liquid? Why did he do that? What happens next?
> 
> Well I don't actually know. The story writes itself. Also: I finally used a semi-proper title. Whoohoo!


End file.
